Wednesday, January 27, 2010

The Crystal Cup by Bram Stoker

Just in case you recognize Bram Stoker as the author who wrote the famous novel, "Dracula," and thought he'd done no other work, I thought I'd share one of his short stories on my blog.

Here's a little excerpt:

The Crystal Cup
By Bram Stoker



I. The Dream-Birth

The blue waters touch the walls of the palace; I can hear their
soft, lapping wash against the marble whenever I listen. Far out
at sea I can see the waves glancing in the sunlight, ever-smiling,
ever-glancing, ever-sunny. Happy waves!-happy in your gladness,
thrice happy that ye are free!

I rise from my work and spring up the wall till I reach the
embrasure. I grasp the corner of the stonework and draw myself up
till I crouch in the wide window. Sea, sea, out away as far as my
vision extends. There I gaze till my eyes grow dim; and in the
dimness of my eyes my spirit finds its sight. My soul flies on the
wings of memory away beyond the blue, smiling sea-away beyond the
glancing waves and the gleaming sails, to the land I call my home.
As the minutes roll by, my actual eyesight seems to be restored,
and I look round me in my old birth-house. The rude simplicity of
the dwelling comes back to me as something new. There I see my old
books and manuscripts and pictures, and there, away on their old
shelves, high up above the door, I see my first rude efforts in art.

How poor they seem to me now! And yet, were I free, I would not
give the smallest of them for all I now possess. Possess? How I
dream.

The dream calls me back to waking life. I spring down from my
window-seat and work away frantically, for every line I draw on
paper, every new form that springs on the plaster, brings me
nearer freedom. I will make a vase whose beauty will put to shame
the glorious works of Greece in her golden prime! Surely a love
like mine and a hope like mine must in time make some form of
beauty spring to life! When He beholds it he will exclaim with
rapture, and will order my instant freedom. I can forget my hate,
and the deep debt of revenge which I owe him when I think of
liberty-even from his hands. Ah! then on the wings of the morning
shall I fly beyond the sea to my home-her home-and clasp her to my
arms, never more to be separated!

But, oh Spirit of Day! if she should be-No, no, I cannot think of
it, or I shall go mad. Oh Time, Time! maker and destroyer of men's
fortunes, why hasten so fast for others whilst thou laggest so slowly
for me? Even now my home may have become desolate, and she-my bride
of an hour-may sleep calmly in the cold earth. Oh this suspense will
drive me mad! Work, work! Freedom is before me; Aurora is the reward
of my labour!

So I rush to my work; but to my brain and hand, heated alike, no
fire or no strength descends. Half mad with despair, I beat myself
against the walls of my prison, and then climb into the embrasure,
and once more gaze upon the ocean, but find there no hope. And so I
stay till night, casting its pall of blackness over nature, puts the
possibility of effort away from me for yet another day.

So my days go on, and grow to weeks and months. So will they grow
to years, should life so long remain an unwelcome guest within me;
for what is man without hope? and is not hope nigh dead within this
weary breast?

***

No comments: